Work Text:
“God dammit ,” Michele Crispino hissed as he fumbled with his tie for the fifth time that afternoon. He threw it down on the bed, punched the wall, and melted onto his executive chair, hand over his face.
“What the hell, Mickey?” Sara Crispino appeared in the doorway, her face one part concerned, two parts annoyed. “Did you just punch a wall?”
“Yes,” he replied through clenched teeth.
Sara eyed him up and down. He knew she was taking in his black suit jacket and khaki slacks and judging him. “Oooookay,” she sighed, crossing her arms. Honestly, sometimes her brother could be so extra. “Spill. Why?”
“I can’t get this freaking tie to tie , god dammit , Sara, I’m a wreck.”
She raised an eyebrow. “A polka dot tie? Really, Mickey?”
“I have to look good…”
“Not with that tie, you’re not gonna.” Sara took the tie out of her brother’s hand, studying it for a second. “Let’s burn this and get you a new tie.”
“I like that tie!” Michele’s voice cracked.
“It’s… violently salmon. With baby blue polka dots. Honestly, did you buy this yourself? It’s too early to be having a midlife crisis, Mickey, you’re only 22!”
“It’s a gift from Emil, okay?” He sighed, defeated. He didn’t want to admit to Sara that he and Emil were going out to dinner that night, but of course she got it out of him.
“From Emil? You hardly paid him any attention at the GPF,” Sara sounded intrigued. Her face lit up. “Oh my gosh, Mickey, did you… did you get together afterward? When you went to apologize for puking all over him at that club in Barcelona?” She grabbed Michele’s hands, her nose almost touching his, full of excitement. “Is that it?” She gasped. “Is this a date ?!”
“It’s not a date!” he protested. “I… I wanted to thank him for showing me around Prague last time! And anyway, after that LARPing disaster - “
“The LARPing disaster that you loved and wouldn’t shut up about,” Sara interrupted.
“That I was utterly humiliated at,” Michele glared at his sister, continuing on. “I made him promise that next time we hung out, we’d just… go to dinner. Anyway, he’s visiting Italy, so he said he’d make his way up here, and we have reservations to go to a restaurant tonight, so I thought I’d dress up and wear that tie. He’s such a kid, he loves when people wear things that he gets them.” Michele sighed again. “Is it really that bad?”
Sara looked him over again, her eyebrows crinkled. “Well… for one thing, if you’re taking him to that restaurant down the street, he’ll love it, but you’ll stick out like a sore thumb. It sounds like a date, though.”
“I’m not taking him there,” Michele rolled his eyes. “I’m taking him to La Pergola.”
Sara’s jaw dropped. Michele had never seen anyone look so shocked. He was afraid she had a heart attack. “S-Sara?”
“ La Pergola ?!” Sara screamed. “ Mickey ! One does not simply take a friend to La Pergola! It’s absolutely a date!”
“It is not!”
“Right, right, so Emil is ‘just a friend’ who’s flying all the way from the Czech Republic to see you, and you’re dressing up, and spending an incredible amount of money on a three star Michelin restaurant with panorama windows at a fancy hotel that you probably had to reserve seats at, at least a month in advance because you’re ‘just friends.’ Okay. That’s believable,” Sara rolled her eyes, sarcasm positively oozing off her lips. She looked at her brother again and pinched the bridge of her nose. “There’s no way I’m letting you go on your date at La Pergola dressed like that. Mickey, please never, ever wear those khaki pants again. They’re hideous.”
“They’re… formal?”
“No, they sag and go around your hips horrendously, plus they’re much too long for you.” She went to his closet, dug around for a bit and shouted “Aha!”
“Wear this.” She grinned widely as she flourished a purple suit jacket that glimmered at the shoulders and lighter violet trousers.
The brother stared at her for a good thirty seconds. “Sara, that’s my free skate outfit from this season.”
“Eeeexactly,” Sara sang. “It looks good on you, men wear suit jackets on dates, and also Emil will appreciate it for the nostalgic value.”
Michele only stared.
Three hours later, Michele Crispino stood in front of Roma Cavalieri in his free skate outfit, unsure how he got there. He was a good half hour early, but just in case. After all, Emil had only been to Rome a few times, and his Italian wasn’t great. What if Emil didn’t show up? What if he had gotten into traffic? What if he really did just think of Michele as just a friend? Wait, what? Michele stopped. What if he wanted to be more than just friends with Emil? That was the real question, wasn’t it? And Emil was a sweet guy. What if he saw through Michele and was creeped out?
“Mickey!” A voice called out from the crowd. Michele got a glimpse of honey blond before he was tackled by an ecstatic Emil.
He barely had time to regain his breath before he stopped breathing again.
Emil was gorgeous , Michele realized. He looked so sharp in his dark gray suit, like a proper gentleman or some sort of rich male model instead of… well, like the little kid he always acted like. The way he cocked his eyebrow up, his puppy dog eyes, even his stupid goatee, all looked incredible .
Michele wasn’t sure if he loved it or hated himself for loving it so much. We are just friends , he reminded himself, but in his head, he could hear Sara’s words resonating. She was right, of course. No one takes their friend to La Pergola.
“Mickey?” Emil asked, concerned as Michele stayed on the floor where Emil had knocked him down. “Hey, are you all right? I hope I didn’t hit you too hard, god, my coach always says I should calm down or switch to hockey, I’m so, so sorry, Mickey, I - “
“Emil, it’s fine,” Michele cut him off. He got up, dusted himself off, and he just barely resisted the urge to fluff up Emil’s already ridiculously fluffy looking hair. He opted for an awkward shoulder pat instead. “I’m just a little tired. Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay,” Emil replied, still looking worried. “Sorry, I’m just… really excited to see you again,” he sighed happily. “You’re looking good after that LARP date,” he chuckled.
He called it a daaaaate , Michele heard Sara’s voice sing-song in his head.
Shut up , he told his imaginary sister, reddening.
“Y-yeah,” he replied curtly, rubbing his elbow. He swore he bruised it hard enough that he still felt vestigial pain, but his family and Emil had laughed it off, calling him a decrepit old man.
Awkward silence ensued.
“And you look… nice,” he tried to compliment Emil. God , it was difficult to hold a conversation.
“Awww, thanks, Mickey!” Emil hugged him tightly, overjoyed by even that one pathetic bit of praise that Michele could only offer weakly. He hated Emil for that, that innocence, that purity , hated him for loving him as only a friend, for accepting that compliment as though Michele had offered him the sun when the compliment he paid was closer to the verbal equivalent of wilted cabbage.
Moreover, he hated himself for being able to only give Emil the verbal equivalent of wilted cabbage when he deserved the sun, the world, and all the stars in the universe.
Whenever I see you, stars in your eyes brighten up the skies for me , isn’t that how the song went? There was so much nostalgia in that song. Back at the Grand Prix, he thought he would skate for Sara, but she had let him go. And now? Now was the off season. Now he skated for no one. Now he was by himself for the first time in twenty-two years, but let god strike him down if he didn’t see the entire universe and all the glimmering stars in Emil’s eyes when that man child looked at him.
He felt a shock run through him as his fingers accidentally grazed Emil’s, saw Emil’s face turn a vivid shade of red as Michele yanked his hand away, the same shade as women’s lipsticks, or wine, or contentment.
“So…” Emil fidgeted with his collar. “This place is, like, super fancy, huh? I’m not used to wearing this kind of thing.”
“Yeah, yeah, I guess,” Michele replied, rubbing his own neck self-consciously in response to Emil tugging at his collar. “I thought we’d do something nice for a change, you know?” Realizing the implications of his words, he quickly added, “Not that the club in Barcelona and LARPing in Prague wasn’t nice, it was, I just - “ he sputtered.
Emil waved him off. “No, no, don’t worry, Mickey! I get it,” he answered softly, a thoughtful smile on his face. “I just like to spend time with Mickey,” he admitted. “Heck, we could have gone to your place and eaten a pizza and just watched sports or something, and I would’ve thought it was a fun date, er, if you were having fun, too, I mean.”
There was that word again. Date. Did Emil think this was a date? Was this uncomfortable? Did he not like it? Michele knew Emil was much more laidback. Maybe he had overdone it with La Pergola?
“Maybe some other day. Sounds fun,” Michele replied. He didn’t want to disappoint Emil, and just lying around in sweatpants all day did sound appealing, especially considering the effort he had put into this one date - this friend date , he reminded himself, despising every second that he had to pretend it was only a friendly dinner.
Everything seemed to blur together as they rode the elevator up to the penthouse. Emil chattered away, talking about how warm it was, how nice he thought all the people in Italy were, and how excited he was to finally be able to spend time with Mickey. Michele just wallowed in his own self loathing for not being able to be honest with Emil.
“Mickey? Mickey, am I annoying you?” Emil gently, uncharacteristically, touched Michele’s arm.
For the third time that night, all of the air in Michele’s body seemed to dissipate. Should he draw away? Would that be rude? But if he didn’t, would Emil suspect something?
“No,” he replied brusquely, realizing too late that it would seem that he truly was annoyed with Emil when, really, he just didn’t know what to say or do.
There was, between them, a sadness. It was not hostility, Michele could tell that much, but it was heavy and unpleasant, like a rainy Monday afternoon in the middle of July, when the muggy summer air made it impossible to breathe, and even lifting an arm felt like trying to move against a current.
Crushing.
The guilt of hurting Emil’s feelings was crushing.
As he and Emil sat opposite each other, Michele kept his eyes down on the menu.
Emil cleared his throat. “Uhhh, Mickey?”
Michele kept his eyes down. “What?”
“Sorry if I’m annoying you, but uh… Italian?”
Finally, Michele looked up. He was an idiot. Emil fidgeted with his collar, clearly uncomfortable. “Right.”
“Yeah.”
More silence.
Cutlery clinked. Wine splashed. Chatter built up.
And in that moment, Michele realized he couldn’t understand any of it. It was overwhelming, a wall of things he couldn’t understand, a society he wasn’t part of, the pressure of keeping up a social image towering higher and higher until he felt crushed by it. But what could he do?
But just like at that club after the Grand Prix Final, Emil saved him.
“Mickey, I’m sorry,” he whispered, oh so sincerely, when he had absolutely nothing to apologize for. Michele should have been the one to apologize, he knew.
“Emil, what - “
“I should have guessed that I would bother you. I thought it’d be nice to see you again, but I really don’t know much about Italy or about fine dining and I’m going to need you to get around and you have a life and all that and I just came waltzing in and - “
“Emil, shut up.”
Emil looked up, his dark blue eyes shocked by Michele’s interruption, vulnerability shining like the sun. This was so wrong, Michele knew. Emil was never vulnerable; he was strong and bright and blinding, he was the hot Italian sun, so enthusiastic at times that it felt like Michele was being crushed by its warmth, but at the end of the day, always welcomed, and always beloved.
Michele Crispino was never the type of man who would simply ask someone out on a date. He overthought things too much. And beyond that, he was afraid of rejection, of getting hurt. The one time he thought a girl was pretty in middle school - she had long black hair that curled like grapevines around her cinnamon speckled face, he remembered - he kept it secret. Sara had pestered him for weeks, but he stayed firm, only blushing and stammering when he saw her. Outright telling someone that he liked them was never a strong point for Michele.
And yet, as scared as he was for himself, as strong a sense of self preservation he had for his reputation, he never once allowed anyone to hurt someone he loved. Even when it was a whole group of boys from the year above teasing Sara, ten year old Michele had singlehandedly fought them off, sporting scrapes and bruises for weeks afterward because god dammit, no one was going to hurt his loved ones, not if he had anything to say about it.
He loved Emil. Looking into those blue eyes, so sad and pure under those stupid bushy eyebrows, Michele Crispino realized that if he was to be completely honest with himself, he loved Emil Nekola and he was not going to let anyone , least of all himself, hurt Emil.
“Just… shut up, okay? You…” he sighed, looking for the right words. “You’re overly excitable. Whenever I’m around you, I get scared that you’re gonna hurt me, or Sara, or yourself, or someone else. Every time you call me Mickey, I want to scream at you. You can be bothersome as hell , but god dammit , Emil, I like… spending time with… you…” he trailed off, afraid he had said too much, been too brash, too blunt, and just too much .
Glancing upward, fearing Emil’s reaction, Michele was stunned to find Emil’s mouth agape, his eyes once again shining like the sun, but this time with joy and surprise.
“Mickey… do you really mean that?” Emil finally asked.
Michele could feel the heat rising in his neck, up his free skate outfit’s collar, he imagined. “Y-yeah,” he answered gruffly, eyebrows furrowed.
Tentatively - so unlike Emil, Michele thought - the Czech skater reached out and put his hand on Michele’s. He was so gentle, so different from his usual energetic self, a butterfly landing carefully on a flower as opposed to a golden retriever tackling its owner. For a second, he simply rested his hand on Michele’s, softly, some understanding unspoken between them.
“Let’s go,” Emil whispered, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and Michele was suddenly transported to another time, a certain club in Barcelona where Michele had seen that same glint, and he felt himself fall in love with Emil Nekola all over again.
Three hours later, Michele was sprawled across the couch of his and Sara’s apartment, still in his free skate outfit, sharing a comforter with Emil, who had taken off his coat and tie. He could not tell if he was inebriated or if he was just warm in the face because Emil was practically on top of him, but he did not mind either option as he poured a tall bottle of red wine into two glasses and handed one to Emil. Soft jazz music played in the background, rich and low.
“A toast,” he suggested, raising an eyebrow and his own glass.
“A toast to what?” Emil replied, either teasing or oblivious, but Michele suspected it was more oblivious because his eyes did not have a glint in them. Emil’s eyes revealed so much about him.
“To life, and to good friends, and - “ Michele stopped. Dare he say it?
“To loved ones?” Emil prompted quietly.
“To loved ones,” Michele agreed softly.
They clinked glasses and drank. In the quiet moment that followed, Michele realized the song had changed to Serenade for Two . He hummed it quietly, a familiar tune now, as Emil finished off his wine. Surprisingly, he heard Emil join in.
“This was your free skate song, wasn’t it?” Emil asked. “It’s so passionate, so… so human .” He looked up, smiled at Michele. “It suits you, Mickey.”
Drawing Michele’s hands in his own, he slowly drew closer until his eyes closed and their lips touched, gently at first, so gently that Michele could barely feel it, but soon, when Michele reciprocated, the two grew more passionate, breaking away only after the last notes of the music had faded away.
“I love you,” Emil said, laughing a little, nervous.
Now Michele laughed, possibly the first time he had ever laughed in front of Emil, a raucous laugh straight from his stomach. He laughed so hard that his ribs hurt, and he started gasping for air, still laughing from relief. Finally, wiping a tear away, and putting his hand on a very confused Emil’s face, he replied with complete sincerity.
“I love you, too, Emil.”